


Not That Kind of Relationship

by Wolfscub



Category: British Actor RPF, tom hiddleston actor
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Fluff, Masturbation, Mention of spanking, PWP, Phone Sex, dom!Tom, dominant Tom, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfscub/pseuds/Wolfscub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom's friend is surprised that he wants her to indulge in phone sex with him, since they haven't had a sexual relationship up to then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NSFW
> 
> Mature Audiences Only!
> 
> Just a very long, rambling bout of phone sex.

_Knock_

_Knock_

_Knock_

_Penny._

_Knock_

_Knock_

_Knock_

_Penny._

I grabbed my iPhone and brought it to my ear, judiciously avoiding looking at what time it was, although I knew it had to be somewhere near three a.m., because I'd just fallen asleep around two-thirty.

"Whoever the _fuck_ this _fucking_ is, it had better _fucking_ well be that you're calling to tell me that some _motherfucker_ that's _fucking_ close to me has _fucking_ well died or I'm going to _make it_ that some _motherfucker_ that's close to me has _fucking well_ died - slowly, and painfully. Now what _fuck_ do you want at this ungodly hour of the _motherfucking_ night?"

A familiar, "Hello to you, too, darling," purred smoothly into my ear.

A little too smoothly. I put him on speaker, thoroughly enjoying the way that sexy as sin voice filled my otherwise lonely room.

"Fucking Hiddleston."

"Unfucking Hiddleston, to be scrupulously accurate, since, you know . . . we're not fucking, nor have we ever … you know . . . fucked."

He hadn't slurred so much as one polysyllabic word, and yet I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was completely soused. I don't know what it was that clued me in - perhaps the distinct feeling brought on by the expansiveness of his tone that let me know he was functioning with even less verbal restraint than he usually showed.

 _Uh oh_.

"You're drunk." I wasn't accusing in the least - just stating a fact, and using it to deftly avoid the altogether too personal subject he'd just introduced.

He hiccoughed in my ear and then burped - but it wasn't an American guy, beer fueled, claxon of a burp. It was a quiet, half-suppressed one - as if it had only occurred to him when he was already halfway through it that he should try not to burp out loud - and that set me to giggling at his belated attempt at propriety.

"I may have had a bit more Jameson than I should have, perhaps. Mebbe." I always smiled when he used an expression I used. "But I am glad to be a source of amusement for you."

" _Always_ , Hiddleston, whether you're trying to be or not . . . " I retorted immediately. I'd never spared his not so delicate ego, and I wasn't about to start now. I think that was one of the things he liked about me. Yes, he was drop your panties gorgeous, and yes, he was a movie star, but I treated him just as badly as I did everyone else.

If I was pressed to categorize it, I might have said that I treated him like his sisters probably did, although I had a good idea that he would balk at that description.

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his feelings towards me were certainly not of the sibling variety. He'd made that quite clear several times, much to my complete and obvious discomfort, and he had always politely backed off.

At least he had until tonight.

"Is that why you called me from the back of beyond in the middle of the night? To give me a Public Service Announcement that you're in your cups?" He was filming somewhere very remote, and had no data connection to speak of.

"I called you," he replied loftily, in his trained stage actor's voice, "because you're my friend."

"That I am, honey. Masochist that you are, you keep coming back for more, Lord knows why, especially since I'm a friend _without_ benefits . . . Shit!" I knew I should have been paying exclusive attention to him, but something from another friend had caught my eye that I wanted to respond to.

"What?"

"Nothing, I'm just fat fingering a reply to a text someone sent me last night."

He did a disturbingly spot on impression of Homer Simpson's doughnut drool while repeating the word in that sentence I least wanted him to pick up on. "Fingering." The way he said it made it sound like the filthiest pursuit imaginable.

And yet entirely proper, at the same time, somehow.

I knew, better than most, that those Prince Charming looks and that old world courteous demeanor were a complete and utter sham. They hid the truth of what he was really like - not that he wasn't both of those things, but they were merely a clever disguise. Inside that beautiful head of his lay a mind that was dirtier than I could imagine. 

And, since my own mind was full of complete filth, I could imagine a whole fucking lot.

And, now, in the wee hours of the night, I found that acute dichotomy dangerously irresistible.

Trying to reel him in some before things got out of hand, so to speak, I tsked softly at him. "Tom, will you listen to yourself -?"

He interrupted me, which was unusually impolite of him. I guessed a lot more walls of courtesy and custom were lying strewn around him on the ground - or more probably, his bed, which had me swallowing hard - than I'd gathered. Especially since his growl raised gooseflesh on my arms, tightening my nipples against my nightshirt - which was actually one of his that I'd stolen - and literally making me shiver. 

"I'd rather listen to _you fingering_ yourself."

"Thomas!" Proud at the level of outrage I was able to achieve, especially considering I didn't really feel outraged, I reminded him, somewhat less than gently, "We don't have _that_ kind of a relationship."

There was a slight pause before he countered with, "Not because _I_ don't want to." Not whiney, not judgmental or even particularly angry, but rather almost wistfully put.

I couldn't think of anything to say to that. It was somehow just . . . too painfully true, and not a subject I usually allowed us to discuss.

His tendency towards an apologetic nature fought its way through all the alcohol to rear its head for long enough for him to say quietly, and with true regret, "Sorry."

"No you're not, but that's OK." Trying to divert him, I threatened playfully, "I should really record this conversation and play it back to you when you're sober."

He completely ignored that threat, instead stating with alarming honesty, "I'm horny." And before I could even _begin_ to derail that conversational train, he came out with, "And I haven't forgotten that you let it slip the last time you were at my place and _you_ were the one who had had too much to drink, all of the delicious things you told me - like that, among other things, you're loud in bed."

My mouth was hanging open, my forehead in my palm, lots of responses flying through my brain, none of which I liked, so I again remained silent, hoping he'd get the hint.

But he was much, much too far gone for subtlety. I should have realized that.

"In fact, I think about it all the time." He sounded as if he was thinking about it right _now_ , and I tried not to let my mind wander into such dangerous territory.

Of course I lost that battle before it began. I could well imagine him stretched out - naked, of course - on a big bed, that gorgeous, elegant hand of his sliding down over his chest, over his practically twelve pack abs, past his cute belly button- every damn thing about this man was gorgeous, even that - those long, strong fingers wrapping surely around himself.

And I could also well imagine that he'd be more than a handful for himself, much less someone like myself who had a much smaller hand -

 _Don't_ go there!

. . . Too late.

And he was still talking, in a voice I don't think I'd really heard from him before, except when he was acting. It lit every already throbbing area I owned on fire, bringing me horrifyingly close to orgasm all on its own.

"I've spent a lot of time since that night thinking about what you might sound like - whether you whimper and moan, or keen or beg -" The last word sounded strangled, and he stopped himself for a long moment, during which I knew I should have said something - almost anything but what I was thinking - but I couldn't bring myself to. "I wonder what might make you catch your breath or gasp - perhaps when I take a straining nipple in my mouth, or slip my hand between your legs, or the first time I press myself into you -"

"Tom, you have to stop." That was it. Authoritative. Firm. Dominant, even.

. . . Sort of.

Everything I was truly _not_.

Everything I wanted - quite _desperately_ wanted but was afraid to want at the same time - from him.

"No I don't. I _can't_." I heard his breath hiss in between clenched teeth, his breath puffing loudly out of him from that point on. "Do you purr? Do you growl? Would you make the same noises whether it was my hand or my mouth . . . or your own hand down there?"

"Tom, stop!" I knew I should have just ended the phone call. I knew that this was going to change things - irrevocably - between us.

But, like him, I just couldn't. I wasn't nearly strong enough to do the right thing.

Especially when the feelings he was expressing were distinctly - achingly - mutual.

And then he said it, the timbre of his voice was a soft, rumbling whisper, but with no small amount of command threaded through it.

Fuck. 

I'd told him - that same night - exactly what I liked. In excruciating detail.

And the bastard had apparently bothered to _remember_ it.

"I want to hear you cum, angel. I really want to _see_ you cum - while I'm between your widespread thighs and you're dancing in and on my mouth - but I'll settle for this - for now."

My feet were working restlessly against the sheets, as if I was trying to backpedal away from him and he wasn't even here. "No, Tom -"

"Yes, baby." He sounded even more dominant and confident than before, probably embolden by the fact that I _hadn't_ hung up on him. "I'm already more than halfway there, in case you hadn't guessed. Hell, I was most of the way there before I picked up the phone to call you, thinking about you . . . yearning for you. I'm hard as granite, and it's because I've been torturing myself all night with thoughts of you."

I don't think I'd ever been so unresponsive during a phone call - especially with him. He was always so easy to talk to - always laughing at himself and trying to make me laugh, too.

But not now.

He must've gotten the idea that I had no idea what to say, so he stepped in to fill the void, which was exactly what - if we had had _that_ kind of relationship - I would have expected - wanted - him to do.

"At the risk of sounding clichéd, darling, what are you wearing? And please feel free to lie to me if you have to and _don't_ tell me you've got on that Tinkerbell nightshirt I know you have crammed in the back of one of your drawers."

That was it. That was my out.

I hesitated - surprising myself - but I knew I had to do it.

"Tinkerbell," I lied smoothly.

He growled, and I would have sworn I could actually feel the vibrato through the phone. "Take it off," he ordered, sounding for all he was worth like the Big, Bad Wolf.

I don't know why, but a short, sharp laugh escaped my throat. "I'm kidding. I'm wearing -" Oh, shit, I thought, looking down at one of his ubiquitous blue t-shirts I was pretty sure he didn't know I had. Did I dare to tell him the truth?

"Lovely?" he prompted firmly.

"I - I'm in a t-shirt," I answered, not quite believing I was going through with this.

His breath caught. "Just a t-shirt? Are you wearing panties with it?"

"I always wear panties."

"We'll have to work on that, but not now."

What the fuck did he mean by that? This was a one-shot. A one time deal.

Wasn't it?

And then he asked the question that was surely going to blow my cover.

"What color?"

Stalling, I asked in what I hoped was an innocent tone, "What color are my panties?"

"And the t-shirt. I'm envisioning you lying on your bed and I want details."

Oh, fuck me. 

"M-my panties are pink lace bikinis. Not bright pink, but more towards a blush."

His long, low, "Mmmmmmmm," at that relatively tame description caught me by surprise, and I could feel said panties growing even wetter than they already were. "And the t-shirt?"

I closed my eyes and sighed. I should just lie, although I had done so as little as was possible in my life, even about little things like this, so I was out of practice, and this man's mind was sharp as a tack. I was afraid he'd trip me up somehow and catch me out, even without trying.

"Blue. It's . . . blue."

"Golf shirt? Long? Short?" Tom's voice lowered even more to ask almost surreptitiously, "Do your panties peak out from beneath it when you stand or walk or . . . ?" He trailed off hopefully.

My mouth was open to respond, but nothing would come out.

"Answer me, doll." Soft, but with just enough steel to send a chill up my spine.

With a petulant sigh, I admitted what I'd done. "It's yours, all right? It's one of those blue shirts you own a zillion of. I . . . I procured it a while ago, before you left."

There was only the slightest of hesitations before he asked a question I didn't expect, "Is it a clean one, or one that I've worn but not washed?"

Damn his too fucking perceptive tendencies! I'd secretly filched it off his bed when he'd been taking a shower, explaining later that I had put his clothes in the hamper for him before making his bed - which was true. Just not that shirt . . . He was in the middle of the Coriolanus run, and he was exhausted. I was already cooking for him, so that he didn't have to think about something so mundane, and the idea of me picking up after him wasn't unusual at all.

"Worn."

I heard his big intake of breath. "You wanted it to smell of me."

Not a question. A statement of fact, to which I declined to reply, but he didn't let that bother him in the least. 

He knew he was right.

"How far down your thighs does it go?"

He was so much taller than me; it could practically pass for a dress.

"About mid."

He cleared his throat. "Are you on your back?"

"I'm on my side."

"Lie on your back for me, babygirl, and pull your panties down. Not off, but below your knees."

"T-Tom -" I stuttered hesitantly.

But before I could get past his name, he said quietly, "Do it. _Now_."

A whimper escaped my throat at his dominant tone before I could stop it, and another throaty, "Mmmmmm," from him didn't help me any.

Without waiting for me to confirm that I had obeyed him, he asked, "Is your bottom bare now? Tug the shirt beneath it. I'm not there, but I want to know - and I want _you_ to know - that something of mine is covering your ass while we do this."

My breath hitched violently at that and I knew he heard it.

"Yes, okay."

I wanted - with everything in me - to use the term "Sir" with him, but I couldn't bring myself to be quite that presumptuous.

"Do you have everything you need there, right -" he chuckled deliciously - "at hand, so to speak?"

"Everything I need?" I parroted back like a dolt.

"Lube?"

I snorted, then heartily wished I hadn't for what it was going to force me to reveal to him.

Of course he couldn't just let that pass. "What was that about?"

Even completely drunk, the man was entirely too sharp.

"Nothing."

I could just about hear his jaw set. "Honey, if you don’t answer me - truthfully - in the next five seconds, the next time I see you - no matter where we are or who we're with - I'm going to take your hand and march you away with me to find a private place where I can pull you over my lap and blister your behind."

I growled back at him, not in the manner he might have fantasized I would, but in a more challenging manner, as if daring him to make good on his threat. "I have lube in my nightstand but -" I barely suppressed a groan as I continued, blushing furiously as I whispered, as if I was confessing a mortal sin and didn't really want him to hear what I was saying, "I don't think I'm going to need any."

He paused for a long beat, then I could tell he was smiling as he spoke, even though his words were impossibly husky. "Well, darling, that's a wonderful thing to hear; thank you for telling me. That was very brave. I'm proud of you for being so truthful with me, even though I know it must've been hard - and you must've figured you could probably have gotten away with lying to me about it, too, and I'd be none the wiser."

Oh dear Gawd, I knew he'd be dangerous as a Dom, but I didn't know he'd already well versed in that positively _lethal_ combination of firm domishness and supportive, caring lover.

He wasn't even here - I wasn't even naked - and yet I was blushing as if I was nude before him.

"I wish I was there - and I promise you that I _will_ be in the very near future."

I couldn't even _begin_ to process that information.

"I want you to slide your hands up, beneath my t-shirt," he said the word "my" with no small amount of pride, "and cup those gorgeous breasts of yours."

I knew he liked my boobs - I'd caught him staring at them often enough, swatting him playfully only to have him hug me to him to nibble my neck and slobber all over me without an ounce of repentance because he knew he could get away with both the ogle and being more handsy with me than I allowed any other man in my life to be.

"I'm on speaker?" he asked.

"Yes," Sir.

"Put me on your tummy, please."

"You're there."

"Good girl."

Now why did that suffuse me with a warmth that was _not_ from a blush?

"Are your nipples hard?"

"Yes."

"Pinch them for me, love."

I was already panting at this point, and it only got worse from here. I had to swallow back the groans that piled up in my throat - why I thought I had to, I'm not sure, but I did.

"Darling, have you lied to me?"

His question startled me.

"No, why?"

"Because you said you were loud, but I'm not hearing anything from you. Either you lied about being vocal or you're not doing as I've asked you to do. Both situations that will result in a punishment when I get home," he promised.

"No, neither!"

He couldn't possibly punish me. I didn't think I'd live through it.

"Then are you holding out on me instead, little girl, not allowing the sounds of your pleasure - that which you owe to me - to reach my ears?"

"But I -"

He drew a deep breath and said, almost regretfully, "I thought as much. You are never to do so again. I own your pleasure as surely as I do your pain."

Where was he coming up with all of this - the stern tone, the words - the _words_ \- Jesus, the man was going to be the death of me, never having so much as touched me intimately!

"I'm afraid that earned you a spanking, on top of the one you're already getting for stealing my shirt."

In the space of less than fifteen minutes, I'd gone from no spanking in my life - a tragedy I had long since learned to live with - to two pending spankings! And from _Tom_ , of all people!

"That's not fair," I pouted quietly.

He chuckled softly. "If you had wanted my shirt, love, then all you had to do was ask -"

"Yeah, right. Like I was going to do that! Puh-leeze. Get real."

"Don't interrupt. It's impolite."

"Yes, Tom." Sir.

"Now, I want to hear how you feel about what you're doing to yourself at my behest. No more hiding your responses from me in any way."

I might have sniped something back at him, but I couldn’t - it was _my_ fingers on my nipples, but it might as well have been _his_. Once he'd told me I couldn't suppress myself, I literally couldn't stop..

After only a few minutes, though, he groaned, "As much as I would like to take the rest of the night and day with you doing this, you're much too potent for me to be able to last that long."

"Oh, stop!" I breathed.

"I realize now I should have long since simply reached out and taken you on my own terms; that that's what you need from me. I've been much too patient, waiting for you to come 'round to my way of thinking, and because of that, I can barely contain myself."

"You don't have to, you know," I suggested as gently as I could while I panted heavily.

His gruff chuckle shivered along all of my nerve endings, all of those marvelous sensations pooling at the area beneath where he next directed my attention to.

 _Between my legs_. I was on the phone with Tom, and he had told me - in that terribly proper yet completely lewd way of his - to spread my legs for him - for _him_!

"Put the soles of your feet together - that'll keep you well open. And I'm sure I don't have to remind you that you're not to close them again until we're through, do I?"

I couldn't help it. My response was automatic. "No, Sir - I mean, Tom."

That low chuckle sizzled past my ear and over my lips, kissed each tilted peak on its way down my body, then found its home in the area I'd just exposed at his command. "Sir is perfect. That's what you should call me from now on, unless I give you permission to do otherwise. Do you understand, my darling?"

Somehow, though, I didn't want to say it. It was too much of an acknowledgement of my submission to him too soon.

"I do."

But, to my horror, all it took was a chiding tsk from him and I caved.

"Yes, Sir."

"That's it, love. But I'm afraid the spankings are piling up. You're going to need a pillow on your chair for quite some time after I get home to deal with you, I'm afraid . . ."

I couldn’t stifle the softly indrawn, "Nooooooooo," that escaped my lips at his pronouncement, sounding much more like a moan of ecstasy than of protest, and garnering one in response from him.

"Where are your hands, baby?"

"At my breasts, S-Sir."

"I want you to move them down, over your tummy, slowly, following the curve of your hips, then down to the tops of your thighs but nowhere else. No further. You may only touch yourself when and where I tell you to, in case you hadn't intuited that. But you're a bright girl. You know how to _obey_ me even without me spelling everything out, don't you?"

On an agonized sigh of indecent anticipation, I moaned, "Yesssssssssirrrrrrr . . ."

His hiss sizzled into my ear and when it trailed off, I could hear him panting very hard. "Good girl," he ground out, what I guessed was the strain of holding himself back making it sound more like a curse than the compliment he intended it to be. "Move those delicate little hands of yours between your legs and hold yourself wide open for me."

I knew he could hear just how excited I was as I did as I was told. "Yes, Sir."

"You have no idea how much I wish I was there right now. Can you feel my warm breath on you? Move your finger - which finger do you use, sweetheart?"

Why this should make me blush furiously I'll never know, but I did. "My middle finger, Sir."

"Ah, good," he ground out. "Place your middle finger on top of your clit, but keep it still."

"Sir? May I ask a question?"

"Yes, of course. You may always ask me anything."

"Are you . . . touching yourself?"

A tense laugh. "Fuck yes, I am."

"Can you feel it as me? My hands are a lot smaller than yours, my mouth would be better -"

"Stop!" He said it so harshly, and I was already so deep in sub-space that I teared up at the idea that he might be unhappy with me. But he continued, much more softly, if roughly, "I don't have near enough control for you to talk to me like that, and I intend for you to find your pleasure before I succumb to mine, little one."

Whimpering, "Yes, Sir."

"I had hoped - imagined - you'd be this responsive to me. I can't possibly wait until I can truly make you mine, finally."

He was silent for a long moment, and I wondered if he had lost his battle with himself and reached his peak.

When he spoke again, his voice was much more controlled than it had been. "That was very close. Let's concentrate on you for a while. Reach down, past your clit to that beautiful quim of yours and gather some of your honey - that I'm going to taste the next time I see you," he promised on a growl, "and bring it up to your clit. Is your little button swollen and aching, ma petite?"

"Mmmmmmmmmm, Yessssss, Ssssssir." 

I heard him draw a deep breath. "You may begin to touch yourself, honey, but I want you to imagine it's me, that it's my tongue teasing and loving every intimate inch of you. And you must tell me when you're close to cumming. You don't want to add an even worse punishment on top of the others you've already earned, do you?"

I could barely manage to respond to him, barely getting out a tortured, "N- no, p-please, Sir!", his gruff, satisfied chuckle making me wish I could retract it. 

As that finger stroked furiously back and forth over that little scrap of flesh, I found myself surrendering completely to him, to his control, his sometimes soft and loving, sometimes hard and stern encouragement easily driving me past any remaining reticence I might have felt about what we were doing.

"That's it, my darling. Slip your finger over yourself the way I would my tongue - torturously slowly, then very quickly, changing the rhythm to tease you with your own pleasure . . . but you must obey me, little girl, and keep yourself in check. No cumming without permission."

His breath was heaving into my ear and thinking of what he was doing to himself while I was touching myself at his command was almost more than enough.

"Let your left hand wander down to your cunny. I want you to put two fingers up inside you, as if they were this stiff, hard cock I'm holding in my hand."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"I - could I - " I was nearly too embarrassed to ask, but it meant something to me or I would never have brought it up.

"What, love?"

"If you don't mind, I'd really rather wait . . . until it _is_ you, please. I - " I thought the teasing was going to kill me, but perhaps it was this instead that was going to be the end of me. "I haven't - that is, I don't . . . no one's . . . "

"How long has it been?" he rasped, understanding what I was stumbling towards immediately. "How long since you've had any _one_ \- or any _thing_ \- inside you?"

I closed my eyes, horrified somehow that I was going to admit this to him. 

But I did.

"Years."

"Son of a bitch," he breathed, almost reverently, but then he began to pant and moan and I recognized that he was incredibly close - close to orgasming at the thought of having me - of making me his - of taking me - after such an incredible period of abstinence from penetration, at least.

I left off my own pursuit in favor of contributing to his. "I've - I've been doing Kegels, and I'm incredibly tight," I dared, rewarded for my boldness by a loud moan that was close to a scream. "If you were here, at your size," and I knew the truth of his gift from having seen him in a tiny bathing suit, and I'd been quite sure every time that he was going to burst out of, "The first time you fucked me, I'd practically be virginal, although you've made me so wet I'd be slick, too, but there's no way I wouldn't be a bit uncomfortable, too, clenching around you, whimpering while I tried to adjust as you stretched me open while you sank into me -"

"Fuck me, I'm - I'm -!"

I heard a loud groan that descended quickly into feral growls that came in spurts, the way I was imagine he was cumming all over his hand and lower stomach.

After a very long period filled with the thoroughly arousing sounds of him trying to return to some semblance of sentience, I heard, "Jesus H, woman, you damned near killed me!"

"Yeah, but I didn't. I'll have to try harder next time."

I was doing my best not to think about whether or not all of these "next time's" and "if you were here's" were ever going to amount to anything. He was a busy man, and undoubtedly had many women he could go to for . . . stress release, ninety-nine point nine percent of whom were a zillion times prettier than I was.

As much as I want this to become more than just this night, I was going to do my best not to count on it.

When his breathing was still a bit ragged, but much closer to its normal, steady pace, he asked, "Where are your hands, lovely one?" His dominant side was definitely reasserting itself.

I bit my lip. "Between my legs."

Even I didn't recognize the extent of the very submissive note in my reply.

"Good girl. But I imagine you sacrificed your own pleasure in favor of mine, didn't you?"

A tingle skittered up my spine. "Yes, Sir."

"Well, I can't have that. I was so enjoying the lovely, squirmy sounds you were making before you naughtily distracted me with thoughts of making you truly mine."

I swallowed hard, wondering if I was going to be disciplined for that, too.

"But I can hardly fault you for wanting to bring me pleasure, now, can I?"

"No, Sir," I agreed readily.

"Now, I want your finger back where it was, stroking you, lapping at you like my tongue will as I hold you still for my mouth to devour you." His words had me keening loudly. "Where are you? Are you close?"

"Y- Yes, Sir."

"How close? Very? Or only a little?"

"Very."

"Mmmmmmmm. I like that. I'm going to keep you very close, always - in more ways than one."

"No, Tom - " I protested weakly.

He corrected me immediately - the way I'd quietly hoped - and worried - he would. "No, _Sir_ , babygirl. But then, I don't much want you telling me 'no' at all - no matter what way I decide to have you, or punish you, or if I decide to tease and torture you mercilessly with your own pleasure, keeping you right there - skating right on the edge - for a night . . . or a week . . . or a month . . . "

"God, no!"

I'd never thought of his trademark "Eh he he he" to be inherently evil, but apparently he could make it so simply by deepening his voice a bit.

"You have no idea what things I have in store for you, my darling. I've been waiting so long to get you like this - you're likely to not be able to walk well - or at all - before I let you go each time."

It was my turn to keen.

"T - T- Sir," I changed quickly. "I'm - I'm ve- very -"

"You're almost there," he provided knowingly. "Just relax and think of me reaching up to thread my fingers through yours, so we're joined together in another way that, at the same time, prevents you from moving them to rescue you from what I'm going to do to you. My body is holding you open to me, you couldn't close your legs even if you tried. I know you're seconds away from losing control, and I open my mouth over you, eagerly suckling that little scrap of flesh into it to stroke and lick it, to press that terribly sensitive part of you against my tongue, swirling it around relentlessly, pressing two fingers inside you, hard and deep, until -"

What began as a low, slow, heavily panted groan increased in volume and urgency until it was practically a full blown scream, but Tom didn't seem in the least concerned or bothered by it. I could hear him guiding me throughout the storm he had so skillfully aroused within me.

"Don't stop, lovely. Keep that finger going, darling. I know you’ve got more than one of those in you . . . "

And he wasn't wrong.

With his voice invading my head, my heart, my lady bits and my consciousness all at once, I felt as if I had no choice.

That deep, confident rumble took me where he wanted me to go.

"That's it. I would never let you escape so easily, my love," he cleared his throat quickly. "Why don't you gather a bit more of yourself on your fingertip and continue just as you were . . . Let me hear you, darling. I can't tell you how your squeals and squeaks and those helpless sounding moans make me almost hard enough again for my own second round . . ."

He was relentless, encouraging, dominant and loving in just the right turns, until somewhere around the eighth . . . tenth? . . . fourteenth? I couldn't tell - climax, I began to chant with what little breath I had left and entirely unconsciously - "No more. Please. No more. I can't. I don't have the strength . . . "

His "aww" of sympathy sounded genuine, despite what he threatened. "We'll have to work on your stamina, I can see."

"Stamina," I panted. "Fuck my stamina. My right hand is permanently cramped into a position that any woman who sees it will instantly recognize as a masturbation claw. I'll never be able to play the piano again."

"You don't play the piano now," he returned wryly.

"Details, details. I'm killeded, I tell you. Deaded."

He took a deep, satisfied sounding breath. "I cannot tell you how much I wish I as there to spoon the every loving shit out of you."

I barked a laugh at such a improper statement coming out of such a proper British mouth as his. 

"Turn on your side and put the phone under your ear, doll."

"Ok."

"Are you on your right side or your left?" he asked.

I had to think about it - having always had problems telling my right from my left. "I am on . . . my right side. That's the way I always fall asleep."

"I know."

He was a wonderful friend, and had spent time watching over me and dancing attendance on me - when he could - when I was - even _deathly_ \- sick, and he'd tucked me into bed more times than I could remember.

"I'm on my right side, too, right up tight behind you." His voice took on that hypnotic, soothing tone that could relax me right into oblivion, into complete bonelessness. "My left arm is around your waist, pulling you back against me, that sweet bottom of yours tucked up against my hard on -"

"You're hard again? Do you want me to help you take care of that?" I offered on a yawn that kind of dampened my altruistic intent.

On a soft chuckle he replied, "No, angel. You're exhausted and so am I, thanks to you." 

I picked up where he left off. "I reach down and pull your hand up between my breasts and hold it there while I press my bottom back against you."

"Oh, love, that move could get you into trouble . . . " I heard him take himself in hand, so to speak. "But no, I'll be gentlemanly, this time, and control myself. Although I can't always promise to do that around what's mine. I'm contracting my arm where it lies between your breasts to hold you even more closely to me, laying my cheek against your hair, my mouth at your ear, so you can hear and be soothed by my voice and my steady breathing . . . Sleep, lovely girl, safe in my arms, as you will always be . . .safe from everyone, save me."

As much as I wanted to drift off to sleep in with the strength of his imagined arms around me, I couldn't let something go. It tore into me every time my raw, sensitive mind touched on it.

"Tom?"

"Yes, baby?" 

I could hear how tired he was and reconsidered bothering him with my stupid concerns. "Nothing. Go to sleep."

"My darling, I usually don't threaten - I simply correct, as you will soon find out. But this is an unusual situation we've wound up in. Tell me what you were thinking, or I swear I will fly home just to give you the punishments you've racked up this evening - plus another for this bit of stubborn nonsense - before flying all the way back, leaving you sobbing very unhappily and reduced to lying on your tummy for the foreseeable future."

"All right, all right. I was just . . . wondering . . ."

"Worrying," he supplied much more accurately than I was going to admit.

"Are -" I began, then started again. "We said a lot of things tonight that seemed as if . . . as if this was how we were _going_ to proceed."

Without a second's hesitation, he replied, "And this _is_ how we're going to proceed. There's no going back from here, I'm afraid. There's only forward, with you at my side, being carefully watched over by me, my hand planted firmly on your bottom."

"Are you sure you want it this way?" I gulped hard, and asked what I was really concerned about in a tiny whisper. "That you really want _me_?"

Tom knew, without me having to bawl all over him or say anything more than I already had just how vulnerable I had made myself with that question. It was a feather in his cap that I even began to think I could be so honest and truthful with him, knowing, if it was anyone else but him, that I would expect impatience in return, at least, if not worse.

When he spoke, I could hear the truth of what he was saying - what he was feeling and revealing to me just as openly, ringing loudly in his hushed tone. "Honey, when I see you again in a few weeks, I fully intend to make you wonder how you could even _begin_ to think I didn't. I have two weeks off before I have to go to L.A., and I'm going to spend them trying to make you scream, for one reason or the other."

My breath caught in my throat at his pronouncement.

"Now, settle back down in my arms. You need to get some sleep and keep your strength up in order to keep up with me when I get home."

"Yes, Sir."

"Damn, woman, I love the sound of that . . ."


	2. That Kind of Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW
> 
> Mature Audiences Only
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, well, there was such a clamoring for a sequel to the original, that here it is.
> 
> I happen to think that it's a case of "be careful what you ask for". This one is longer and wordier and more rambling than the original - hence my dislike of them - but . . . well . . . here it is. 
> 
> For the record, not my best work.
> 
> Dom!Tom, Smutty Smut Smut, Erotica, Spanking, Sex, Fluff, PWP

It was three days after he nearly did away with me over the phone and I was pack-muling it up the stairs, three bags of groceries in each hand, and thoroughly regretting my decision to take a third floor walkup with every step, no matter how reasonable the rent.

Not for the first time, I wondered what Tom was doing. I knew he had a week or so to go before he came home. Not that I really expected anything to be different between us because of one aberrant phone call, regardless of his assurances to the contrary - but I hadn't heard much from him besides the occasional text - or more accurately - sext, such as:

_I can't wait to bury my face between your legs to taste you for the first time, to hear the sweet sounds of your ecstasy again and again and again . . ._

and

_Remember to take your vitamins, my love; you're going to need them! :))))_

 

Of course I was much too unassuming (read: chicken) to _demand_ he pay any kind of attention to me, despite the steamy fantasy we'd shared. Regardless of any of the reassurances he'd given me before, during and after he'd - we'd . . . well, anyway, I was not the type of person who would ever, ever presume that he would ever want to have anything more to do with me than he usually did.

And I was still always amazed that he wanted anything to do with me at _all_ . . . 

I opened the door - pretty much with my feet since my hands were full, the circulation to my fingers largely cut off because of the weight of the bags, and when I pushed it open, there he was, sitting on my couch like he owned the place, looking - as always - like a Greek god, a big, shit eating grin on his face.

"Jesus Fucking Christ, Hiddleston, you are fucking well trying to kill me, aren't you? You're not due home for a week or more!" I didn't question the fact that he was there - he'd had a key to my place for a while, as I did his - not that I ever used it.

He chuckled and came to me immediately, relieving me of all of the bags and putting them on the counter, then leaning in the entryway of my kitchen, arms folded over his chest, staring at me with a look that I could only describe as . . . hungry.

"I told the director to cram all my scenes together; that I had a personal issue that needed _seeing to_ at home." He straightened, arms totally open, a beautiful, warm, welcoming smile on his face, fingers flexing encouragingly at me. 

But I automatically did the exact opposite of what he was probably expecting me to and pressed my back even more firmly into the door as I closed it, clutching the doorknob for dear life.

He looked surprised, but not angry. "You couldn't be afraid of me, truly, could you, kitten?"

My mouth refused to work. It opened, but no noise came out, and, eventually, I closed it before I began to catch flies.

His arms were still out, palms up, as he inclined his head a bit and looked at me from beneath drawn brows. "I'm the same man who held your head when you were sick from the flu that time. And took care of you when you neglected your health so badly you nearly got pneumonia -"

"And, as I recall, you threatened to take my temperature _rectally_ at one point because I tried to refuse to let you scan my forehead," I complained pointedly.

That broad, unrepentant smile was back. He didn't look or sound apologetic in the least. "I will always do what I think is best for you, little girl, regardless of whether or not I think you're going like or want it. That is a _very_ solemn promise."

I frowned. It wasn't a very _good_ promise, as far as I was concerned. I liked things to happen the way _I_ wanted them to, consequences be damned. Tom didn't sound as if he was going to sign onto my stunted-at-a five-year-old's idea of being an adult.

He took a big stride towards me, covering perhaps half of the distance between us without trying. His eyes rested heavily on me and his voice dropped as he cajoled, "Come here to me, love," arms still wide open for me to run into them if I could only make myself do it.

But I knew I couldn't. 

That I _wouldn't_.

I didn't have anywhere near the kind of confidence about where things were going with him - if anywhere - that would have been necessary for me to do that. If he had been simply surprising me by returning home early and we hadn't become so pseudo-sexual, I wouldn't have hesitated. I'd run into his arms many times before, without even thinking about it - once I got used to how truly affectionate and loving he was - to be held tightly to him, or even sometimes twirled around, safe in his arms, the both of us giggling like idiots. 

"I've been your shoulder to cry on, your confident, your drunk on a Saturday night then Sunday brunch companion, and just a few days ago I let you quite effortlessly reduced me to a puddle of primordial ooze - and I'm egotistical enough to think that I might have done something likewise for you, based on the delicious noises that were drifting into my ears . . ." 

"Oh, fuck yes," I sighed, before I could think better of it, blushing brightly, my entire body sparking to life at the mere thought of how he'd so skillfully guided me to Paradise - and back. I had to admit, too, that the aftercare he had so thoughtfully provided was at _least_ as marvelous as the nearly non-stop orgasms that had preceded it.

My thoughts were derailed a bit when I looked at him, really looked at him. I loved it when he smiled at me as he was now. He was so blindingly beautiful when he was happy.

. . . Or sad.

. . . Or hungry.

. . . Or angry.

Or probably, knowing him, a week dead. 

Sometimes I hated him so much.

But I loved and wanted him at least as much, so much it scared the crap out of me and kept me plastered against the door rather than inching towards him even slightly.

Another big step brought him terribly close to me, but, at the same time, almost scrupulously careful not to touching me.

But I could already feel him, feel the heat of him - physical and otherwise - and smell his cologne - one I had given him, I recognized.

He gazed down at me, genuinely puzzled. "Are you really so terrified of me, love?"

I swallowed hard and looked bravely up at him, biting my lip uncertainly but wanting to be truthful with him. Something was acutely different now; there were awarenesses that hadn't been there before, one of which was the extreme difference in our heights - I felt smaller than I ever had around him - and I did not consider myself a small woman - and that made me feel . . . somehow more distinctly feminine, for whatever reason, and he seemed much more overtly . . . _male_ than I remembered. 

Although I knew I was going to totally botch it, I tried to explain how I was feeling. "It's not _you_ , really, it's just that after . . . well . . . you know . . . and now. . . you're so . . . _here_ . . . When you're gone, I tend to forget how very .. . _you_ you are."

That got him laughing, and making him laugh - which was something I always took pride in being able to do - relaxed me a bit.

"It was so much easier to do this over the phone." I chewed on my lip and peeped what seemed like miles up at him, suddenly. "Plus you were completely polluted that night. Would you mind terribly going home, having several glasses of Jameson, then calling me?"

Although he still wore a small smile as he did so, he closed what little gap remained between us, his eyes as soft as the hand cupping my cheek while I felt his body press to mine - not demandingly, not dommishly, just . . . wonderfully. "Yes, I mind terribly. I can't imagine leaving you voluntarily ever again," he whispered, kissing me with a tenderness that was akin to reverence.

When he moved back a bit, he was frowning slightly. "But forgive me, _petite_ , if I forget that this is new to you. I, on the other hand, have known you were mine since the first time I saw you - or, more accurately, _heard_ you. You were laughing loudly - even snorting occasionally - and making everyone around you laugh with and at you. I thought it sounded so genuine and unselfconscious - not a fake, polite titter but an actual hearty guffaw - lots of them."

He had been grinning as he remembered, but then his face clouded over. "But I also noticed that you were sitting on someone's lap. Some _man's_ lap - " He didn't bother to hide the jealousy in his tone.

"Gerard," I supplied automatically, thinking back to that night, too. 

Was that an aborted, throaty growl I heard or had I just imagined it?

"Yes," he mused aloud, sounding and looking distinctly unhappy. "You had your arm round his shoulders and he had his hand on the small of your back - _on your skin_ ," and this time he did bite off in an unmistakable snarl, "not on top of your shirt - and I have never reacted so primitively to anything in all my life. I wanted to remove his hand from you in the most violent of manners possible, pull you into my arms where you belong, and take you far away from him. Then I wanted to make sure you were so constantly full of me and so completely and utterly satisfied that you couldn't come up with your _own_ name much less his . . . and I still aim to do just that."

"Tom!" I tried to cover my furiously blushing cheeks with my hands but he drew me smoothly to him and popped me smartly on the butt twice, once on each side.

I realize rapidly that my thin yoga pants were no defense at all against his considerable strength. My hands wanted to fly from my face to cup my offended flesh, but I wanted to cover my upper burning cheeks from him more than I wanted to rub away the sting as he tilted my chin up so that I had to meet those mesmerizing eyes of his.

A slight but pointed _tsk_. "I'm not Tom to you any more, lovely."

I had forgotten in my surprise at seeing him, but I somehow knew he nonetheless expected me to correct myself out loud.

Damn, it was _so_ much harder to say when he was standing right there, watching me expectantly.

"Sir," I barely managed to get out.

The reward of his smile was well worthy any embarrassment I felt at using - _wanting_ to use - that title of respect with him.

Softly, not even scolding, really, he whispered hypnotically, "Put your hands at your sides, love. Never try to hide yourself from me. All of you is breathtakingly beautiful to me and I intend to become intimately familiar with every single inch of you. And if you value the health of that adorable behind of yours, you won't try to stop me."

Although I knew I was even beet redder than I had been before, I did as I was told, wishing I thought that obeying him was always going to be this easy.

When I had complied, he continued, "I know I might be going a bit fast for you, but I find my patience is at a premium since I had that delicious almost taste of you. It was much easier to deny myself when I hadn't experienced how explosive we're going to be together, although I've always suspected as much, even more so after your lovely drunken confession that night at my place that you had submissive tendencies. I practically unmanned myself in front of you right then and there when I heard that." His lips melted onto mine, and I was inches from melting completely into him. It was a sweet, undemanding yet seductively heady kiss. 

He pulled back, long moments later, only sounding a bit chagrinned as he confessed, "I have never in my life felt compelled to arrange my professional life around, well, anyone else, really - particularly not around someone I hadn't even slept with yet."

I opened my mouth to tell him that I certainly didn't expect him to do that, either, until one long finger was pressed over my lips.

When he spoke, his tone was soothing, yet undeniably firm at the same time. "I want you to be quiet and listen to me, sweetheart, and perhaps I can ease your mind and your fears a bit." He brushed an errant strand of hair back from my cheek, giving me one of those rapt, adoring looks that I'd only seen him give his family and the occasional very good friend or coworker. It weakened my knees such that I immediately found I had to lean towards him, whether or not I wanted to, for support, which he stepped up to provide without missing a beat, encouraging me to rest myself along his strong length. 

"I promised you that night that I would be here shortly because I desperately wanted to be with you when you came then, and I want so much more from you than just that. But if I've gotten to know you at all in these past frustrating years, I know you're thinking this can't possibly be happening, that somehow you don't deserve it, and/or that I must be suffering from some kind of temporary insanity or something because I actually _want_ to be here with you."

I nodded my head vehemently in agreement, making him, "Ehehehe".

"But I’m going to do whatever is necessary to prove to you that this is not some aberration, and I will _very happily_ spend the rest of my life doing just that."

It came into my mind - however farfetched - that that sounded alarmingly like the precursor to a proposal, but the thought was so outrageous that I dismissed it immediately, feeling much better when he simply wrapped his arms around me, holding me amazingly tight and rocking the both of us back and forth just slightly. Somehow, that instantly made me feel better overall, as it always had, although I was still really unable to come to grips - intellectually or emotionally - with the truth of what he was saying to me.

Even less so when I heard a threat rumble through his chest, "You know you have spankings coming, don't you?" I stiffened, but he just continued doing what he was doing as if I hadn't, one big hand stroking in a leisurely fashion up and down my back, making it hard for me _not_ to relax against him. "How many did you earn that night?"

Not thinking it was much of a big deal, I out and out snorted. "I dunno."

Tom leaned a bit away to give me a look a that let me know in no uncertain terms that that was not at all the response he had expected to hear, one eyebrow near his hairline in stark disapproval. "That's something you need to keep track of, my darling, but even more so, you need to know what they're _for_ , so that you can learn from them. I don't intend to have to constantly correct you for the same thing - as a matter of fact, each time I have to discipline you for something you've been punished for already, it's going to get worse." Tom nuzzled my ear, whispering huskily, " _Much_ worse."

There was no way I could suppress the full body shiver that had me shaking in his arms - his tone, the specific words he was using, - not to mention the pure, unadulterated sex that was his voice - to say nothing of the fact that I had no doubt that he would make good on his promise practically had me cumming right then and there.

The hand that had been massaging my back wandered boldly down to cup my bottom. "I believe the count stands at four, although, since you obviously weren't paying very close attention to me while I was speaking to you that night, it's now at five."

I tried to squirm but I couldn't, and I didn't want to do too much of it, considering where his hand was.

"Have you been disciplined by anyone before?" he asked, holding me still as he arched his lower body gently against mine, letting me know without a word that he was more than capable of taking me, right then and there.

I shook my head, staring down at his chest.

But his fingers beneath it raised my chin so that I had to look at him. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, babygirl. I do. But I would presume upon whatever feelings you have for me for one more thing, which is probably going to be the hardest thing of all for you to do."

"Yes?" The word was hoarse and I could barely get it out.

"I want you to surrender yourself to me."

My first impulse, of course, was to balk and try to move away from him, but he held me fast.

"Hear me out."

I continued to struggle, for reasons unknown even to me - I just . . . felt I had to, until he completely immobilized me with ruthless ease but entirely without hurting me in the least, pressing my ear to his chest, his chin on top of my head.

"Angel, I won't let you go until you've heard everything I want to say to you, so you might as well relax. I hope you know - beyond anything else - that you're always safe with me, regardless of what does or doesn't happen between us. 

"For the next two weeks, you won't have to do anything but _obey_ me. I will take care of everything, and _you_ are my most important everything." He kissed my hair solemnly. "I want to get to know you much better than I already do - better than I know myself - in every possible - and impossible - way. I want you to let go and just let me guide you. I'll show you what it's like to be mine."

I could feel a bit of tension entering his body at the next bit, "At the end of the two weeks, we'll talk," as if he was severely reluctant to entertain the idea that I might decide not to continue this aspect of our relationship - as if he really didn't want to give me the right to do that. And his next words proved my hunch right. " . . . and if you're not convinced at that point about how right this is for us, how perfectly natural and satisfying it is for you to submit to me . . . well, then I'll take you to bed for _another_ two weeks . . . and, if necessary, _another_ and _another_ and _another_ . . . " I could hear that he was grinning, but I had a feeling he wasn't kidding in the least, either.

Tom could be both a very stubborn and a very determined man when there was something he wanted.

He loosened his hold on me, but not by much, just enough to look expectantly down at me.

I was really at a complete loss about what to say. It was as if someone had laid before me everything I had ever wanted in my life, encouraging me to reach out and take it, but I could not for the life of me convince myself that it wasn't some cruel joke, that if I trusted that it wasn't enough to try to take even just a small piece of it, it would evaporate before my eyes like a mirage in the desert and I'd be left with nothing - not even his friendship.

I stood there, mute, in front of him for a very long beat, finally, reluctantly, looking up at him with tears filling my eyes. My mouth opened, and I had to forcibly push the words out of it. "I - I don't - I don't think I c-can."

As my chin dropped to my chest, I caught the barest glimpse of his stricken look, then I murmured the thought that was on my mind, but barely audibly, "I - I think I _want_ it t-too much to actually _d-do_ it." I forced myself to look up at him again; the least he deserved from me was for me to look him in the eye as I did what I thought I needed to do to preserve my sanity and turned him down. "But thank you -"

I never got to finish my declaration of absolutely sincere gratitude because he caught me up in his arms, lifting me high over his head, then lowering me slowly down his body, inch by excruciating inch as he stood there, legs braced widely as always, taking every care to make sure I felt secure and that he didn't hurt me as my shirt naturally rode up so that it ended up mostly bunched beneath my arms, and, in a move I would never have expected, he held me in place - my feet well above the floor - insinuating his hand between my legs to take firm possession of that intimate area of my person that - because of the truly tiny thong I was almost wearing - had as little protection in the front as my thin yoga pants had provided my bottom when he'd smacked it so sharply earlier - so that when he cupped me there, he truly _cupped_ me _there_ \- all of me, all of the bits of me that were - as always - in an uproar just being in his presence.

There was no flinching away from him - he was my stability, he was the only thing keeping me from falling, and nothing I could do was going to budge either the muscular arm that encircled my waist and held me in place or the one that was keeping his hand where it was.

"As I already know you pretty well, I'm going to ignore a lot of what you just said because I know it's just your insecurities talking, and I'm going to concentrate on what very nearly just made me cum in my pants - you said you wanted it too much, and I'm here to assure you that there's no such thing." Then, in a voice that had more than a small edge of hardness, he chided, "And don't you dare thank me, little girl, when I haven't done anything for or to you - _yet_ \- that would warrant it - and especially when you're probably not going to feel very grateful about some of what I'm going to do to you shortly."

There was no suppressing the whimper that escaped my throat and no hope at all that he hadn't heard it. "Oh, God, no," I sighed to myself, closing my eyes against the sure knowledge that there was nothing I could do to stop him before he actually began to _do_ it.

"And I know of one certain way to prove - irrefutably - that you _do_ want it . . . If I press _my_ middle finger - " he accented the "my" to let me know that he remembered that intimate little detail he'd learned about me recently "- between these soft, swollen lips of yours, am I going to find you moist and ready for me, in spite of your reluctance?"

When I hadn't answered him a few seconds later, he prompted, "Hmmmm?"

I could barely think much less form a coherent response, especially as he suited actions to words and I heard his surprised gasp at just how wet I was. 

"Son of a -"

That was an _unmistakable_ growl and I felt the entirety of him stiffen, then all of a sudden I found myself sliding quickly down the considerable length of him, his closed-eyed groan not stifled in the least as I was nearly caught on the enormously tented front of his pants.

After making sure that I was okay to stand, although a big hand at the small of my back kept me close to him, Tom gave me a rueful look. "This was very nearly over before it began for me." He kissed me with every tenderness, parting our lips very slowly to confess, in a deep, dark tone as his lips brushed mine, "You're _very_ potent, lovely."

Surprising me, he took a small step away, reaching out to take both of my hands in his, bringing the backs of the fingers of each hand to his lips at the same time as his eyes never left mine. "I know you were scared to do it, and you probably hoped I wouldn't hear it, but I was very proud of you when you were brave enough a few minutes ago to admit that you _want_ this - and that's how I'm going to proceed." He gave me a schoolteacherish look, his tone lowering to scold gently, "I'm not going to allow your fears - which I promise I will prove are unwarranted - to prevent you - to prevent _us_ \- from exploring the intoxicating reality of what we each so obviously crave from the other."

With that he put both of my hands over that extremely prominent, rock hard bulge, my fingers eagerly closing around him as best they could, sliding slowly over that impressive prominence from tip to balls as his eyes fluttered closed on a guttural groan.

Seconds later, though, he forcibly removed himself from under my ministering hands to encircle my left wrist with his fingers, tugging me behind him and into my bedroom, saying softly but in a firm manner that let me know I didn't have choice in the matter, "Come. I ache for you, and I want to see _all_ of you."

 _All of me_? I gulped hard. The amount and caliber of alarms that that small sentence set off in my mind was staggering. As much as I had - more than occasionally - thought about what making love with Tom might be like, I hadn't really considered just how awkward I was going to feel about being naked in front of him . . .

But I also had a pretty good feeling that he wasn't going to be deterred by that in the least.

I was led to the rug in front of the end of the bed, and I figured he was aiming for the bed, but he stopped me there. "Stand still."

It was a simple command, but damned near impossible for me to accomplish, apparently. I fidgeted nervously, rocking back and forth at first, which got me swatted sharply as he walked slowly around me several times, then I fidgeted with my fingers and found them slapped lightly.

"Where do your hands belong, babygirl?"

"At my sides . . . Sir." I put actions to words and it was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

"Lift your chin, my love." His finger beneath it forced me not to stare at the carpet, as I was wont to do the entire time, but rather straight ahead. "Just in case you didn't know, or you might have thought that I felt somehow differently, I do not believe that there is anything whatsoever to be ashamed of in you wanting to submit to me. Quite to the contrary. It's a very precious gift, a deep, humbling honor you bestow on me, and you are in no way to think of yourself as less than me because of any of your desires. In fact, you're stronger than I am in some ways because of them, and I will always celebrate that strength in you. I will also always do my best to try to live up to the trust you place in me every time I love you, or, even more especially, when I have to punish you."

In a smooth, practiced movement, he took my baggy shirt off over my head - it was so loose that it came off with little trouble, and I was standing there in front of him in my oldest, most dilapidate bra, which he made quick work of, putting it on top of the neatly folded shirt he'd placed on the bench in front of my vanity.

It took everything in me not to use my hands to cover my nakedness, but then he managed to distract me from that particular discomfort by making me even more so, taking my elastic waist pants, as well as my thong, down my legs, crouching effortlessly in front of me to help me out of them, holding my hand to steady me in a wonderfully courtly - if distinctly out of place - gesture that I shouldn't have been so surprised about, knowing Tom.

Nude before him for the first time - certain it was going to be the last not only because I thought I was going to die of nervousness but because I figured he'd already be running out the door, repulsed at the sight of me - I never wanted anything more in my life than I wanted to reach for the robe that I knew was hanging off the hook on the back of the bedroom door - easily within arms reach behind me. If I just raised my arm I knew I could get it . . .

My arm began to move without orders from my mind - definitely against his express desires - and before it got more than six inches up towards its goal, he came around behind me and began to swat my bottom - hard.

Although my arm dropped like a stone to where I knew it belonged, the spanking continued, until I very quickly began wondering how I could ever have thought that being punished like this might be arousing!

"Good girl for recognizing that you were breaking a rule, but I will always punish you for it, regardless," he informed me in a tone that was strikingly casual.

Once he'd stopped - just as I was on the verge of tears -I watched him looking me up and down, his eyes lighting on certain areas I fought again not to hide from him, then his hands - sure and firm but gentle and sensuous too, somehow - replaced them in some wonderful, intoxicating mix that had me practically swooning as he touched me - everywhere but where I thought he'd start with, frankly, deliberately leaving off claiming physical possession of my most intimate bits to his own good time.

He saw my hips arch automatically towards him as those rough-tipped fingers tickled along my lower belly, but he remained on his own path, having touched my scalp and shoulders, all the way down and back up each arm, my little acknowledged sides, hips, and bottom - which he squeezed hard, the bastard - then down each leg, his hands travelling up the insides of each but pulling away mid-thigh, leaving me practically creaming down the path he _hadn't_ taken.

What had I gotten myself into? I wondered, wishing I thought I could get away with rubbing my sore, stinging butt, or, barring that, my throbbing, aching pussy.

"You're not used to being nude, are you?" he murmured with surprising sympathy.

I had to snort at that. An understatement if there ever was one. If I thought I could still get clean, I would have worn clothes in the _shower_. 

"No, Sir."

His grin was evil. "Well, you're going to get used to it pretty quickly, I imagine, since those are the last clothes you're probably going to see for the next two weeks."

I opened my mouth to protest, but before I got a chance to, he turned to rummage in a bag I recognized as his, from which he produced two things - one an expensive silk tie - not that he owned any other kind - and the second a very pretty scarf in pinks and purples, and before I could process what was happening, I found my wrists bound behind me, the scarf - which he informed me he'd bought for me specifically for this purpose - tied over my eyes.

As humiliating as it was, and I was terribly embarrassed by it, I immediately began to whimper.

I heard - and kind of … felt, somehow - him come to stand in front of me within seconds, his hands on my upper arms, rubbing them soothingly. "Are you hurting anywhere, darlin'? Is something too tight?"

"No, Sir," I half-sobbed, on the verge of tears for no particular reason that I could discern.

"Feeling sick? Nauseous? Under the weather in any way whatsoever?"

I shook my head and it dropped naturally, only to be brought back up again by a strong finger.

His voice was hypnotically soft as he enfolded me in his arms, one hand buried in my hair, holding my head to his warm chest, and the other rubbing my lower back just beneath my bound wrists - which I knew that he knew was an ultrasensitive spot on my person - and a distinct erogenous zone for me. "Feeling a bit apprehensive and nervous, perhaps a little overwhelmed?"

A shudder ran through me as I nodded in agreement. "Yes, Sir."

"Well, I can understand that. But it's still me - it's just a little more of me - and of you - than you're used to." He pressed delicate kisses to my forehead, brushing the hair from my face. "You know me, little girl, better than almost anyone else. Would I ever - could I ever - really hurt you?"

"N-no, Sir."

I heard him breath out on a smile. "I'm glad you said that so quickly, love, because it's absolutely true. I couldn't - wouldn't - do anything that I didn't think was best for you. And you know, deep down, that you're always safe with me, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir," I whispered against his neck.

"Even when I blister your behind - and I will - you're always safe, because you are always, always first in my thoughts and in my heart."

The combination of his tight embrace, his soothing tone and heartfelt words had me calmed down almost immediately.

At least until he set me on my feet again, kissing my lips with infinite care, then turning away from me, saying matter-of-factly, "And now I think it's about time we take care of at least one of the spankings you've earned, young lady, before even more of them begin to pile up, as I think, knowing you, they are quite likely to do."

"Noooooo!' I squealed in protest, moving my feet restlessly as if I would bolt at any second.

Ignoring me, he asked, "Where do you keep that lovely hairbrush of yours, darling?"

Behind the blindfold, my eyes went wide. 

Fuck. Me. 

He didn't mean to use _my own_ hairbrush on me, did he?

After a long beat, during which my mouth was open to swallow hard, came the stark unforgiving warning that was even more so for how deceptively mildly it was put, "Don't you make me ask you again, honey. You'll be made to regret it, I promise you."

My butt still burning badly from the spanking I'd already received, the words instantly fell out of my mouth. "The - the nightstand."

I heard him rummaging there, then the mattress creaked a bit and I knew he was sitting on the end of my bed, pretty much directly in front of me.

He reached out with one of those freakishly long arms of his, firmly grasping a nipple that had been hard since . . . well, since I met him, I think. Certainly all the time, every time, I was with him.

I had the presence of mind - how I don't know - to stay in place until he said, "Come to me," then I followed where he tugged, mewling softly under my breath at his pinching grip, and also realizing the fact that the first time he touched my breasts it wasn't for my own pleasure . . . 

Certainly not how I had imagined it, but then, that was kind of the essence of this type of relationship, wasn't it? I would get what I _needed_ \- not necessarily what I _wanted_ \- on _his_ terms, not my own.

I was guided over his lap, that huge erection of his poking uncomfortably into my belly, but that was soon forgotten about as he immediately began to speak - and spank, with his hand, thankfully - at the same time. "I _believe_ the first _spanking_ you _earned_ was for _something_ you _confessed_ to me _while_ we were _talking_ that _night_. That _you_ had _stolen_ something from _me_?"

Was I expected to actually answer his question? My jaw was clamped tight against the screams I wanted to emit - if I opened it to speak to him, I didn't think the answer was all he was going to get!

" _What was that item_ , petite?"

Oh, God. He _did_ want me to talk! I was having a horrible time trying to stifle the flood of unexpected tears, as well as my need to cry out.

"Shirt!" I managed to get out, but it opened the floodgates, and I began to shriek - as much as I tried to stifle the sounds, they leaked out anyway.

He continued to assail my defenseless behind as he spoke, completely ignoring my wails of discomfort. "That's right. I was torn when you told me that - because I was very turned on by the idea that you wanted one of my shirts - especially one that smelled like me - but I can hardly reward you stealing from me, now can I?"

Oh, God, I didn't want to answer him, but I knew I had to, definitely knowing I did not want to find out what he'd do if I defied him while he was _already_ spanking me . . . 

"NOOOOOOOO, SSSSSSIIIIRRRR." I practically screamed at him.

I felt him turn a bit, and I had a horrible feeling I knew what was coming next.

And, for once in my life, I was not at all happy to be terribly, terribly right.

From the first horrendous _splat_ of the solid oak oval head of my antique hairbrush until the last - hours later, I was sure - I spent the entire time - when I wasn't weeping and wailing pitifully - planning its demise.

Merely burning it wasn't going to do it - I was going to rent a fucking flamethrower, because that was what it felt as if he was using on me! I was quite certain that, when he stopped, he was going to have to throw a bucket of water over my butt, because it was most certainly being incinerated!

At the end, when I was beyond embarrassment, I found myself held over his lap until I quieted a bit, until the audible traces of my agony had lessened to hiccoughing sobs, and I began to worry that there was something more - God forbid worse - in store for me, but I was wrong.

Tom untied my wrists gently and rubbed them carefully where my frantic attempts to free myself had impressed telltale red marks into them, then removed my blindfold, making sure not to pull the hair at the back of my head. Then he rolled the both of us over, positioning me on my back - despite my whimpered protests - with him lying on his side next to me, after having shrugged out of his own shirt, not treating it nearly as nicely as he had my shitty clothes, dropping it without a thought onto the floor although it alone was probably worth five thousand of my entire wardrobe.

He reached over and grabbed a Kleenex from my bedside table, dabbing my eyes, then held a fresh one to my nose.

When I was cleaned up a bit - as he knew I would want to be - he turned my face towards his and pressed his lips to mine, one big hand cupping the back of my head, keeping me where he wanted me as he kicked his shoes off and lay his top leg over mine, entwining them so that, as he contracted his leg, it pried mine open.

And there was no resisting those runner's muscles, even if they were still encased in dress pants.

I tried to follow one with the other, but that bit of naughtiness had him leaving off kissing me to nibble on my bottom lip, then he caught my eye and I knew I wasn't going to be able to get away with that - or much of anything around him. "Spread your other leg, little girl," he ordered in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

My bottom lip pouted furiously, but with the way my butt was already feeling, I didn’t dare to disobey him.

 _Not_ that I didn't dare to try to maintain some amount of modesty by only moving it a bit - enough to avoid another punishment, I fervently hoped.

His fingers came up to grip my chin tightly. "Don't try to play games like that with me, little girl. I will _always_ win, and you will _always_ end up very, very unhappy for having done so. When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it as soon as is humanly possible, and to the best of your ability."

I gulped hard, whispering, "Yes, Sir."

Damn, this man was _seriously_ dominant when he wanted to be, despite how - overall - loving he had been with me so far.

I sniveled a little as I did so, but I splayed that leg as if it was violently allergic to its mate.

"Put your hands above your head."

As I obeyed, one of his followed mine up to capture them there, and somehow I felt even more defenseless now than I had when I was bound, literally spread out before him. I had absolutely no delusions that I would ever be able to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to do to me.

And that thought had me desperately wishing I could clamp my legs together against the flood that was practically gushing between them.

"You have no idea how many times I've fantasized about having you in this position, even before I knew that that was what you might like. I used to get so hard when you'd let me touch you in the most casual ways, remembering how soft your skin felt when I was alone in my bed that night, how your laugh tinkles out of you sometimes, what it felt like to have you on my lap with my arms around you, like when all of us went camping that time . . . 

There had been a dearth of chairs because of a planning snafu, and I had happily spent the majority of time around our campfires on his lap.

He took a deep breath and I saw his eyes go round, as if he couldn’t quite believe it as much as I couldn't. "And now you're here," he breathed, trailing those long, tapered fingers over my forehead, down my cheeks, over my lips so softly they tickled, then down my neck, across my collar bones both ways, then, slowing dramatically, up the slope of my right breast as I held my breath till I practically passed out.

Tom flattened his hand before it came in contact with that stiff peak, dragging his fingers over it first, then his palm, making me catch my breath and moan, inciting the same reaction when he repeated those motions on my other nipple, making me arch instinctively, trying to fill that big hand, wanting more - much more - contact than he was allowing.

But my invitation was declined in favor of more concentrated attentions as his thumb and forefinger settled on first one bud, then the other, tweaking them gently at first then gradually less so, as if testing my mettle, drawing everything from ecstatic sighs to cries of true alarm before he left off.

Instead, he bent his head to the closest nub then slowly - excruciatingly slowly - sucked it into his mouth, using his tongue to press it against the edges of his teeth which bit very gently, then hard enough to use them to tug as he moved his head away, not letting go until my turgid flesh had been painfully scraped out of his clutches, and not in any way neglecting its partner as he explored my responses to him.

He only left off when they were swollen and throbbing and delightfully raw, squeezing each breast hard, then letting his hand trail away, further south from there.

As it moved closer and closer to the area I most craved for him to investigate, but at the same time thought I was probably going to die when he touched, he tickled my ear with his tongue. "In case it bears repeating from our phone conversation, you're not to cum until I give you permission, my sweet. You know how much I love delayed gratification."

"Yeh-yes, S-Sir," I panted between whimpers, and they only rose in frequency and pitch the closer he got to the apex of my thighs.

"You can figure that rule is always in place for you, unless I tell you otherwise."

My "Y-Yes, Sir," was getting to be automatic, which was a good thing because I was well beyond thinking already, my body arching and yet almost cringing away from those gentle yet insistent fingers at the same time.

He paused with his hand just above the very top of my cleft, leaving me literally shaking in anticipation of his first intimate touch, pressing his lips to my temple as we both drew in a breath and held it -

And those rough tips slipped over me, keeping to the outside mostly - tenderly caressing the same lips he'd felt through fabric moments before while holding me aloft - dragging them down until they became instantly drenched without him ever really getting anywhere near the source of my honey.

His breath puffed loudly out of his mouth on a half-laugh full of wonder. "Is this all for me, sweetheart?" Without waiting for a response, he continued, nibbling on my earlobe, "I'm _incredibly_ flattered - and almost uncontrollably aroused."

When he moved his hand back up, those rough fingertips were no longer so shy, settling themselves into my crease to drag some of that copious honey with them, all the way up to slather it onto my not so little clit, then swiping teasingly at it, gliding quickly over me but not giving me much of a chance to get anywhere from it, his touch was so deliberately light and fleeting.

Although considering the fact that I was totally on the edge and yet not allowed to cum yet, perhaps he was doing me a favor.

Still, there was nothing I could do to control how my body arched after him, my hips rising to press against him when I could, lifting on a bereft cry when he wasn't where I wanted him to continue to be.

Before I realized it, one long digit was _there_ , being gently pressed inside me. 

He stopped abruptly, halfway in, and I felt a strong shudder barrel through him.

"Jesus Fucking Christ, I can barely fit one finger inside you! You weren't kidding about being tight - " 

I turned to look at him and was caught by his expression - and his eyes - as he seated it the rest of the way within me while I groaned and struggled a bit against it - for what reason I have no Earthly idea - his hand still holding both of mine captive with depressing ease so there was no way I could have stopped him - hell, even if my hands were free - he was much too strong for me.

But he did it anyway, as I knew he would, whispering a soothing, "Shhhhh, love. Open for your Sir." He stared adoringly down at me and I couldn't seem to look away from him. "All right? Not hurting you?"

Not trusting myself to speak, I simply shook my head.

"That's good. I didn't think so. You didn't sound as if you were in distress . . . " Then he gave me a devilish grin. "Well, not the bad kind of distress, anyway," winking outrageously at me.

If it had been any other time, I would have smiled or laughed at his teasing, but I just couldn't, and he seemed to understand.

He withdrew that long, slender part of himself, and, to my complete embarrassment, he brought his slick finger up to his nose for a deep whiff, then past it to hold it in front of my mouth. "Clean it off."

I did so quickly and eagerly, to the point that he snatched it back before I'd finished, growling, "I have felt your passion literally throbbing and surging beneath these fingertips. I can hear the way you're panting. I can see the fine sheen of perspiration on your luscious skin. And I can smell the way I make you feel." His hand cupping my cheek less than gently, he dipped his lips to mine, teeth tugging at my bottom lip as if he couldn't get enough of me. "I can't wait a second longer to _taste_ you , even if it's just a lick and a prayer for the moment."

My hands were suddenly free as he made his way between my legs, and it was exactly as he'd said it would be - that strong body of his holding me wide open for him until he could lean his forearms on the insides of my thighs to spread me even further apart for his delectation.

I writhed and moaned uncontrollably and he hadn't even begun yet - how was I going to hold off when that avid mouth of his was _on_ me?!

And then it was.

There was no preamble. There were no playful licks, no gentle probings - he swiped a hot, wet path up from my entrance, cupping the tip of his tongue to fully capture every note of my bouquet, then dragging the flat, firm length of it onto and over my clit, swirling firmly as he did so, finishing with a hard suckle, then craning his head up and literally smacking his lips, eyes closed, letting out a guttural, tortured breath, " _Fuck. Me_. You taste of Heaven itself."

I was far from quiet, moaning at least as loudly as he was, twisting and arching restlessly, not trying to escape but rather hoping against hope that he'd continue!

_Please, Gawd, don't let him stop!_

Just another of those decadent tongue baths, just his warm breath on my already thoroughly exposed privates would be more than enough . . . !

But that would have been too easy, and I had a sneaking suspicion that he was never going to choose to make things easy on me.

His voice - though not unkind in any way, simply commanding and firm - cut through the haze of desire that had enveloped me, taken me over, so that it was the only thing I could think of. "I know you're seconds from climaxing, babygirl, but you must hold off. I want the first time you cum with me to be around my cock. If you don't obey me," he reached beneath me to cruelly squeeze a still stinging cheek, "then you can figure that the way your bum feels now is going to get _exponentially_ worse."

I knew I should have said, "Yes, Sir," to that, but I couldn't marshal what was left of my intelligence to do so, and luckily, he didn't seem to notice.

Instead, he began to literally drag himself up me, kissing and licking and groping everywhere in between until his - still pants covered - cock literally caught at my cleft, in exactly the position it most wanted to be.

I could _feel_ it straining to be released.

Tom sat back on his heels between my still obscenely spread legs and reached for his zipper. My eyes, which had been following his every move, darted away at this, as if I was averting my eyes to preserve his modesty or privacy or something, despite the absurdity of the idea.

"No, angel, look at me. Our bodies weep for want of each other."

When my eyes found his, then him, I could clearly see a large drop of pre-cum had beaded up at the tip of his cock.

His breathtakingly long, thick, rock hard cock.

And I could barely take his finger . . . 

I gulped hard, knowing I was being silly.

Tom must've seen the panicked look in my eye, because he reached out and stroked a finger over my clit, which brought my own desire to the forefront again as he rasped huskily, his words nonetheless quite tender, especially for a moment like this when I knew all he wanted was to be inside me. "You _know_ that I could no more deliberately hurt you than I could myself, little girl."

Biting my lip, I nodded. As he moved forward, I saw as well as felt it when he fitted just barely the wide tip of himself into the notch my body had already prepared for him, and it was immediately baptized and immersed in my honey.

He started to lean over me, his hands on the bed near my sides, and then we heard it.

His pants began to vibrate.

Altering his position as little as possible, he reached up and grabbed the phone, doing something I would never have imagined him doing with it in a thousand years.

He threw it - just shy of angrily - across the room, where it landed against a wall with a thud, and just like that his hand was back being pressed into the mattress by his weight as he held himself over me.

I couldn't tell you why, but my hands found their way between us of their own volition, my fingertips on his lower belly where his pants were splayed apart, just as he was moving up a bit and I knew he would be joining our bodies together, as if to somehow prevent him from having me at this late date.

And he did pause - cold - bless him, he had incredible control and presence of mind when a lot of men - most men - wouldn't have. Hell, when _I_ didn't really have it, either.

I didn't really want to end it - I was just a bit . . . apprehensive. 

He saw the edges of fear in my eyes, felt the trembling of my fingers against him and reached down to grasp my wrists gently and pull them away from that intimate spot.

There was no recrimination or anger in his words, and his tone was loving but very firm. "No baby, put your arms around my neck. That's my girl," he encouraged when I looked into his eyes and obeyed him.

As soon as I did, he began to flex his hips and press himself into me.

"I know it's been a while for you. I'll be careful and go slow this time because we're so new, little one," he promised, and he was as good as his word, although I could see the effort he was having to make to do so. Seconds later, I heard his rasp, but not with my ears, "But I think it gets you off to know that I'm not going to let anything in the universe stop me from taking you."

And he was dead right.

My body yielded to his invasion, every inch of my own surrender portrayed starkly in both my mind and my body; I could feel his uncompromising length scraping against every sensitive bit of me as it did so, feeling myself forced to stretched around him - a hairsbreadth from discomfort and sometimes a bit past that, but it all felt mind-blowing regardless, his words a welcome distraction when I might have seized up.

"We both know that it won't be like this for long. Your body will adjust to me quickly. And as soon as I think you're ready, I'm going to begin taking you for _myself_ \- whenever and however I please, even if you cry out and try to escape my thrusts, I'll hold you still for every one of them."

With that, he gave a small surge and I felt his balls against my bottom.

I was _literally_ quivering around him, my hands still on those muscular shoulders, but they weren't holding on, they were pressing against them as if to move him off me.

Tom reached down to hook a hand around my knee. "You can protest all you like, babylove, but you're already _mine_. Put your legs around my waist." I tried to resist, because that forced me to offer myself up to him even more than I already was, but he essentially arranged me as he wanted, and I was loathe to disobey him.

He began to rock, surging himself within me, and I forgot why I ever wanted to resist him.

As he extended his strokes, I could feel him watching me avidly even though my eyes wee closed, my head thrown back, inches from completion.

"Please - please - please!!!" I didn't even really know I was doing it.

An evil laugh drifted over me from above. "I _love_ to hear you beg, little girl." He dropped down, so that his mouth was at my ear, tongue licking my jaw line. "You were _made_ for me," he hissed as his breath bellowed out of him and onto me. "I've never fit so well - in so many different ways - with anyone else. I will _never, ever_ let you go."

With that he reached between us, finding my clit unerringly the first try and gluing his slickened fingers to it. "Cum, baby. Cum for me. Cum on my cock. You no longer have any choice about it, and orgasms are going to become luxuries for you, so I suggest you take it while you can, before I _withdraw_ the offer . . . "

Everything I am, everything I ever was and ever will be, exploded within at the way he was slamming himself into me, at how his words took over my mind and my heart and my body all at the same time and created such a hellstorm of sensations - 

I blacked out for a second just before that first sweet, sweet contraction, and then I was gone.

I have never been so completely mindless in my entire life, and if it had happened with anyone else, I would have been beside myself with terror.

But this was Tom.

And I knew, as I had told him several times already, that I was always, ultimately, safe with him.

Even if he was the one that drove me insane with pleasure.

Not that I left him entirely unscathed, either. Seconds after I became practically catatonic, shaking and shuddering and emitting one long, continuous, animalistic growling groan, he did approximately the same thing, except that as he lost himself in the need to plunge violently into me, he kissed me at the same time in a lethal combination of frightening possession and stark raving love.

When we came to, when we were no longer gulping helplessly for air, when I could blink again and look up at and actually _see_ him, he kissed me again, with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes, then pressed his forehead to mine.

After another long quietness, he whispered as he flexed fingers that were still trapped between us, "Fancy another one? I don't intend to leave you wanting . . ."

"Stop trying to kill me off," I accused on what passed for a laugh at that point in my recovery.

"Never," he breathed, staring into my eyes. "I love you entirely too much for that."

If it could have, my jaw would have dropped. As it was, it simply hung open. 

I couldn't say anything, though, and it must've made him nervous, because he rambled, "I know we've said that to each other before, but . . . it's different now." He shrugged slightly. "At least it is for me. It's much, much more. You're not just my friend. You're my lover and my submissive. And I love every bit of all of that." His big hand cupped my cheek. "And I love every bit of all of you."

We weren't in a position that allowed me to fling myself at him, but I did the best I could, leaning up and wrapping my arms around his neck. "Oh, Thomas, I can't - I can't even believe it - I've loved you and wanted you for so long!"

After hugging me for a long time, interspersed with sloppy wet as well as teasing light kisses, he frowned down at me. "You mean we could have done this much sooner?"

My butt began to tingle in warning.

"No," I replied firmly, meeting his gaze bravely. "It happened exactly as it should."

He let himself be convinced of that, if with a reluctance I couldn't miss, as he moved away just enough to take his pants and socks off, then he reached out and gathered me to him to spoon himself around me. He was so much taller that he was able to easily enfold himself completely around me.

"Bout time you lost those, isn't it?" I commented, not really having realized until now that he'd stayed in his pants the entire time.

He kissed my cheek, then said, "I'll have you know that I kept them on because you told me that drunken night that you, and I quote, 'found it highly erotic be nude when your man was in any way clothed' unquote."

"Jesus, I was a regular Chatty Cathy, wasn't I? I'm gonna have to start limiting my alcohol intake around you, I can see, since I seem to have a distinct tendency to spill State secrets around you. _And_ especially since you have an annoying tendency to actually _remember_ what I say . . . 

Two large hands cupped my breasts, making me start and wiggle, but I had no success at all dislodging them as they took possession of my nipples and began to roll them. "I'd say, that for the health and happiness of your nether regions, that you might want to develop the same tendency . . . "

That, of course, went right over my head. I couldn't think - again - because of what his hands were doing to me. "I - oh - mmmmmmmm - ooohhh! Stop!"

Yeah, like that was going to work.

It kind of sort of did, but only in that one hand left the breast it had been molesting to travel down to my mons.

"Might I also suggest that you learn to open these any time I show any interest in being between them, my darling."

I moved my top leg up, and he guided it to hang over his.

My clit was immediately surrounded by every one of his fingers as he lazily dragged them over me.

I was amazed at just how quickly my desires were revived.

Right back to riding the edge, damn him.

He continued to pinch and tweak my nipples, sometimes gently sometimes not so, all while never letting up on that little bud until I was a mess of sensations in his arms.

His lips just below my earlobe, he drawled cockily, "You are mine, are you not?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then marry me."

I froze.

"I have a ring. It was my father's mother's. We could do it this afternoon."

Before I could accuse him of teasing, he turned me so that I faced him, "I'm dead serious, my love. I want to marry you."

Nothing could have surprised me more. I was in shock from the sex, but I was nearly dead from the proposal.

And again, I was in another untenable position. How could I turn him down without insulting him? Without making him angry? Making him leave me? Destroying this very new and fragile thing between us? 

I was practically in tears, and as soon as he saw how stressed I was getting, he hugged me to him.

"No, no, no, my sweet. Please, I didn't ask to make you upset. Allow me to answer for you. 'Not just no, but _hell_ no, Hiddleston!'" He pushed me away from him and made me look at him. "Did I get it right?"

He mimicked me too damned perfectly, but I knew that wasn't what he meant.

"Yes, but -"

A finger - the same one that had been inside me - was pressed to my lips. "Stop. You don't need to explain. I know all of your objections before you make them, and I even agree with most of them, but especially that we're too new." He gathered me to him again, rubbing my back soothingly. "I just wanted to get it out there, already knowing what your answer was going to be, and I intend to _continue_ to ask you until your answer is an enthusiastic ' _yes_!'. I just wanted you to know from the start that my intentions towards you are completely honorable - even if my actions are going to be nothing short of perverted."

Unbelievably relieved, I collapsed against him, shaking my head as I sobbed.

He lifted my chin, looking a bit alarmed. "Why the tears, babygirl?"

"I just can't believe . . . well, _any_ of this! None of it. I - you - we - I figure I'm going to wake up any minute now and it's all going to have been a dream . . . "

"It's real, _petite_." He squeezed a butt cheek and I squealed because they were still quite painful. "If nothing else, this should be proof of the reality of it. And if you need me to pinch you at any time, I'd be more than happy to do that, too . . . among other things . . . " He nuzzled my neck, then turned me around again, suddenly when I yawned unexpectedly.

"Sorry! Oh my Gawd, I'm so sorry!"

"Stop stop stop," he soothed. "I've exhausted you, which is always going to be my goal. Sleep. When you wake, I'll make us some dinner."

"You?"

"I cook!" He sounded a bit defensive. "And I told you that you don't have to worry about anything besides obeying me, and knowing you, that's a tall enough order."

Damned if he didn't know me _entirely_ too well . . .


End file.
